Page 7 of Hiss and Tell
“Sebastian Fangborn!” Iris’s voice carries through the door with parade-ground authority. “We can hear you breathing in there. And your lights are on.”
“And we saw you come home last night!” Mabel adds cheerfully. “With your sad little takeout bag.”
Defeat tastes bitter. The deadbolt clicks open to reveal my elderly neighbors in all their Saturday-morning glory. Iris strides past in a cloud of lavender perfume, her practical shoes squeaking against the hardwood. Mabel follows with a Tupperware of what smells like her famous snickerdoodles, and Dorothy brings up the rear, laptop balanced precariously on her arthritis-gnarled fingers.
“Ladies, this really isn’t—”
“Necessary?” Iris settles regally onto my couch. “That’s exactly what my Harold said about his heart medication. Right up until he keeled over in the garden. May he rest in peace.”
“I’m so sorry about—”
“Oh, he’s not dead,” Mabel stage-whispers. “Just divorced. But Iris likes to pretend.”
Dorothy sets up her laptop on my coffee table with the efficiency of a military operation. “Now, dear, we’ve prepared everything. All you need to do is approve the profile.”
“The what?”
“Your dating profile!” Mabel’s enthusiasm could power a small city. “Look at these wonderful candid shots we got!”
The laptop screen fills with photos I never knew existed. Me reading to children at storytime, my snakes perfectly calm and orderly. Walking through the conservation area at sunset. Even one of me helping Mrs. Quinn with her groceries last week.
“How did you—”
“Oh, Mabel’s grandson showed us how to use the zoom on our phones,” Dorothy explains. “Such a clever boy. Now, for your interests, we’ve listed: reading, nature walks, children’s education—”
“And cooking!” Mabel interjects.
“I can’t cook,” I counter.
“Well, you have time to improve. Besides, I’ve seen you through your kitchen window. You make toast.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “That’s… that’s stalking.”
“That’s community involvement,” Iris corrects primly. “Now, for your profile description: ‘Gentle soul seeks—’”
“No.” The word comes out so sharp it makes my snakes stir restlessly. “I appreciate the… concern, but I’m not comfortable with this.”
Mabel’s face falls. “But you’re such a catch! Remember when you helped me find Chairman Meow when he got stuck in that tree?”
“And the way you always make sure the children’s section has those special books for my nephew Tommy’s dyslexia,” Dorothy adds softly.
“The library needs those books anyway,” I mumble.
“The library needs you,” Iris declares. “Just like this town needs you. And somewhere out there, someone needs you, too. They just don’t know it yet.”
The words hit harder than expected, stirring something beneath the embarrassment. These three meddlesome women, with their phones and their cookies and their good intentions, see me. Really see me.
“I’ll think about it,” comes out instead of another firm no.
Three faces light up with victory.
“That’s all we ask,” Iris says, though her tone suggests this is far from over. “For now. We’ll revisit the discussion soon.”
After setting the cookies on my counter, they leave in a whirlwind of hugs and promises to “just tweak the profile a little,” leaving me standing in my suddenly quiet apartment, wondering how to handle a problem that feels both interesting and terrifying.
Chapter Six
Aspen
